That's What You Want, Isn't It?
by Lady Christina
Summary: PWP of Ron at the end of Chapter 19 of GoF. (When he was fighting with Harry.)


Title:That's What You Want, Isn't It?

Author: [Lady Christina][1]

Summary:PWP of Ron at the end of Chapter 19 of GoF.(When he was fighting with Harry.)

Rating: PG, just because it doesn't seem G-rated to me.

Disclaimer:Harry Potter, all related names, characters and places belong to Ms. Joanne Kathleen Rowling.Not me.

Archive:[Fanfiction.net][2], others please [ask][3] first.

Feedback:Would you?

"There you go," Harry said."Something for you to wear on Tuesday.You might even have a scar now, if you're lucky . . . That's what you want, isn't it?"

# _ _

# Harry strode by me, slowly, as if he wanted to show me he wasn't scared.I think he half expected me to throw a punch--I almost did.It was only with clenched fists and a tooth digging into my lip, drawing blood, that I stood still.

_That's what you want, isn't it?_Harry's words ricocheted around my brain, sinking into every possible crevice.When he said that, oddly enough, my vision blurred and my thoughts began to slow down.I knew, then and there, that I would never forget he said that to me.Sure, I might forgive him, or say I did, but I'd never forget it.

Harry was being a prat, plain and simple.Of course, Harry was often a prat, what, with "let's enter the Chamber of Secrets, and face the monster of Slytherin all by ourselves," "let's go after Sirius Black, when we still think he's a convicted murderer" or "Why don't I sneak into Hogesmead to meet you and Hermione, even though I'd be smashing about a million school rules in the process?"

Of course, then, not only were Harry and I on speaking terms, but he never acted this horrible.

I mean, **he put his name in the Goblet!**He could have at least told me about it.What did he think I'd do, tell McGonagall?I wouldn't do that; I'm not Hermione, and we're not dealing with a Firebolt.It would have been nice to enter, something that Harry and I would be able to laugh about in the future: how we got around Dumbledore and his age line, and entered the Triwizard Tournament, even if we weren't chosen as School Champions.A shot at the fame, glory, and the possible gold that went along with being School Champion.Obviously, Harry doesn't need that.He's famous Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived!He doesn't need any more fame (especially after that Rita Skeeter article,) or gold.(Trust me, I've seen his vault at Gringotts.)

I heard the fourth year Boys dormitory close, or, more accurately, slam, and I finally moved from where I had rooted myself on the beige common room carpet.I slowly shuffled towards one of the scarlet armchairs in front of the fire; glad for once everyone else was already asleep, leaving the room to myself.

I drew my legs up to my chest, nesting in the fetal position.The warmth of the fire failed to penetrate the icy boundaries I had sub-consciously put up around myself, letting almost no one in, save Hermione.

Turning my head slightly, I noticed a flash of white from under the "Potter Really Stinks" badges that rested on the ornately carved wooden table to my right.I shifted the lot of them aside—they really were heavy, no wonder the one Harry threw at me had hurt so much—and uncovered _The Daily Prophet_.Not the most recent Daily Prophet, but the one in which Rita Skeeter's expose on Harry appeared.

I quickly glanced down, already knowing what I would see: "An ugly scar, souvenir of a tragic past disfigures the otherwise charming face of Harry Potter . . ."

I threw the paper down in disgust; it was just another symbol of Harry's "Star Status."Reporters fawning over him, Dumbeldore's pet, hated by the Slytherins . . . exactly everything I've always wanted.My whole life I've been overshadowed by my brothers because everything worth doing they've already done.They're so different in their personalities there is nothing left for me to do to separate myself from them.Bill, the cool one, Charlie the adventurer, straight-laced Percy, Fred and George, the jokers . . . and me.Ron.Hell, Ginny's different just because she's a _girl_.All my life I've been constantly overshadowed, but slugged through it because I figured life at Hogwarts would be different.Nope.Wrong.I'm no more then I ever was.I'm Harry Potter's best friend, not Ron Weasely.I'm Hermione Granger's best friend.I'm not known as me, but known for those around me.

Suddenly rage, a rage that has been building up for over ten years burst inside of me.I grabbed a wand lying on the table.(Dennis Creevy's—he should be more careful where he leaves his things, even if he is only a first-year—and switched it from my left to my right hand—my wand hand.

It feels odd, because, of course, it's not _my _wand, but then, I used Charlie's wand for the first two years of my wizarding career, so it's not as foreign as one might think.Still, it's amazing how fast your hand adapts to your own wand.Tentatively at first, and then gaining momentum, I steer the tip of the oak at _The Daily Prophet._

_ _

"Incendio."

The paper bursts into flames, and, after a period of no more then thirty seconds, is nothing but a pile of ashes on the floor.I didn't clean the ashes up, but instead left them for the House-Elves.

House-Elves.Hermione.SPEW.Harry.

Tears formed in my eyes, and I buried my face into the soft velour of the chair, embarrassed that "The Boy Who Lived" had gotten me, fourteen year-old Ron Weaseley, to cry.

I lay their, in that chair, curled into a ball, never moving, for who knows how long.All I knew was that I never went up to the dormitory, and the last thing I remember before shutting my lead-filled eyelids is the dancing blue-black of the flames in front of me.

Ginny woke me up the next morning, thankfully before Harry saw me.I decided that I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he hurt me, and how much he meant to me.Because it was a lot.

   [1]: http://www.fanfiction.net/master.cfm?action=directory-authorProfile&userid=12595
   [2]: http://www.fanfiction.net/
   [3]: mailto:christina@columbus.rr.com



End file.
